


Family Ghosts

by athena_crikey



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Drama, Gen, Morse's non-existent childhood, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 21:32:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8549872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: On the anniversary of his mother's death, Morse begins to have the sensation that he's being followed by someone familiar.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Everything I learned about bell towers I learned from The Nine Tailors. I also learned a lot more than I wanted to know about campanology from it.

Morse spends a long time staring at his anemic collection of ties before eventually selecting the same tie he wears on this day every year.

It’s the bright, deep blue of a cloudless summer sky, shot through with flecks of gold. It’s far showier than he normally permits himself, but he can make an annual exception. Under his fingers, the silk is still crisp and perfect after 15 years. 

It’s the first and last adult tie his mother ever gave him, sent as a present to a boy who would soon start becoming a man. Gwen had scoffed, of course, had said he was far too young and anyway he had his school and church ties. Afraid she might confiscate it, he’d hidden it under his bed until his mother died. After that, even Gwen wouldn’t have dared. 

Now, of course, Gwen is nothing to him or he to her. He would have given anything, even the tie, for that freedom ten years ago.

Feeling melancholy and irritated with himself about it, Morse stomps through the rest of his morning routine, banging drawers and cupboards, slamming his door on the way out and pounding heavily down the stairs. Outside the May morning is full of mist but he doesn’t care – sucks in a deep breath and lets the tension in his shoulders drain away. This is Oxford, where he was once happy and now is satisfied at the least, and it’s not haunted by any of his family ghosts.

And, on this morning, there is a Jag waiting for him.

\------------------------------

The fog is thicker at Thursday’s house than it was in town, the light from the Inspector’s front west-facing window casting a warm glow, a beacon of hospitality. Morse, immune to it this morning, waits in the car. Thursday comes out after a moment, tucking his sandwich into his pocket with one hand and closing the door behind him with the other. His hat’s been put on at a rakish angle, likely by Joan Morse guesses, and he straightens it as he comes down the path.

“Morning Morse.” Thursday gets in, and Morse starts the engine.

“Sir.”

“Sergeant Jakes still at court?”

“It’s his last morning.” The Jag gets off to a clean start – not always a certainty – and Morse steers his way through the fog banks. Approaching cars are indicated by a golden glow in the cloud, stop lights by a demonic red.

“About time. You lads seem to spend half your days down the courthouse,” grumbles Thursday facetiously. 

“We could always solve fewer crimes,” returns Morse, in the same tone. 

Up ahead a light turns yellow, and he slows at it switches to red. There isn’t any cross traffic, and his wandering eyes fix on a pedestrian on the other side of the intersection. A woman in a tan raincoat, walking away from him on the far side of the street. She has thick red hair falling to nearly the middle of her back, and as he watches her slip away into the fog something tightens in Morse’s chest.

The light turns green, but it’s too late. His tenuous good spirit has been ousted by the return of his earlier gloom, spreading like ice-water through his veins; not even the revving engine can chase it away. He makes an inattentive reply to Thursday’s rejoinder, glancing in the wing mirror to catch another glimpse of the woman with red hair, but she’s already gone.

“What’s got you down, then?” asks Thursday conversationally. Morse glances at him, affecting surprise.

“Nothing, sir.”

“Even my kids have given up trying that, Morse, and you wouldn’t believe some of the messes they’ve tried to conceal. Girl trouble, is it?” he asks, eyes dropping to Morse’s unusually decorative tie. 

Morse silently curses his sentimentality.

“Only after a manner of speaking, sir,” he answers, eventually. Thursday gives him time, as always. It’s an excellent interrogation technique, but mostly Morse just appreciates the space it gives him. 

“It’s the anniversary of my mother’s death. Usually I don’t mark it, but I suppose this year following on so closely after – after my father – it just struck me a bit harder.” He raises his hand briefly to his neck. “I should have known you would notice, sir.”

“She gave that to you?” 

Morse nods, eyes on the road where they can’t betray him.

“It looks good on you,” replies Thursday evenly.

\--------------------------------------------------

The morning doesn’t pass as smoothly as he would have hoped. For some reason he’s full of nervous tension, unable to concentrate on one task for more than a few minutes without becoming frustrated. He chews out Strange for a spelling mistake in some unimportant docket, then spills a cup of tea all over an official transcript. Someone brings a paper in to share the football scores and Morse’s heart nearly shoots into his mouth as he reads the partially obscured headline NEW DEVELOPMENTS – DEATH OF CONSTANCE. He almost rips the page from the PC currently glancing at the pools, to see the full title NEW DEVELOPMENTS IN THE DEATH OF CONSTANCE MALLARY, 58 and the article below summarizing the re-opened murder investigation of a banker’s wife in Aylesbury.

Thereafter he forces himself to remain at his desk, stewing quietly as he completes the backlog of paperwork he’s been putting aside for the past week. Strange and the others give him a wide berth; Jakes, fortunately, is still at court. It’s only at noon that anyone approaches; Morse glances up to see Strange staring down at him watchfully. “Fancy a bite?” he asks, non-commitally.

Morse pushes his hair out of his face and forces his mouth into a spasm resembling a smile. “Yeah. Thanks.”

They walk across the scuffed linoleum floor and down the curved main staircase of the old station; before institutionalization struck it it must have had a certain grandeur with its elaborately-tiled front lobby and central stone stairs. 

Outside the foggy morning has given way to a cold, grey day with a damp chill in the air that steals in under Morse’s light car coat and moistens his skin. His hip begins to ache sullenly and he rests his hand over it, as though to warm the bone into better spirits. 

“Where’d you have in mind, then?” asks Strange.

“Somewhere close,” says Morse, glancing up and down the street. They settle for a small pub crammed in between a cleaner’s on one side and a bookstore on the other; Morse hopes for the sake of the books that the kitchen’s properly ventilated out the back rather than leaving the oily air to drift into the neighbouring shop. 

They sit in a window seat, the panes of glass damp with condensation. They’ve scarcely been there a minute before the barmaid hurries over, eager to take their orders. Morse requests a bowl of thick soup without looking at the menu; he wants something to warm him up from the inside out. 

“Bit down in the mouth today, aren’t you?” Strange places his order and turns to Morse.

“Am I?” shoots back Morse, raising his eyebrows enquiringly. Strange gives him an unimpressed look.

“Keep it to yourself then, if you’re so particular. I was only trying to lend a hand.” 

Morse sighs and reigns himself in. “I know. Sorry, Strange – I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Don’t mind me.”

Strange gives him an assessing look. “If you’re sure, then.” He settles his elbows on the table, bulk shifted forward on the seat, and glances around. “Have you heard the rumours about Constable Devon?” he asks, conspiratorially. 

Morse shakes his head, settling in for a lunch filled with uninteresting gossip about uninteresting people. He turns to keep one eye on the window as Strange’s speculation about promotion, demotion and new position vacancies flows over him. Outside a short man in a well-tailored suit and bowler hat passes by – banker, deduces Morse – followed by a girl in an unseasonable short yellow dress and heels so high she can barely walk in them, drawing Morse’s eye as she passes down the pavement. 

The soup’s just arrived, set steaming in front of him, when outside the window he sees a figure in a dark coat walk past. The window is slightly fogged from the cool air, and it seems to his initially inattentive gaze that she simply appears from the haze at the edge of the glass, coalescing out of the damp spring air. Her long red hair tumbles down her back, a fiery gold sheen in the grey day. 

Morse stands so hastily he jams his thighs on the table, soup sloshing over the edge of his bowl.

“Morse?”

Even as he’s standing there on the pub’s sticky floor staring out the window, he realises he hasn’t a clue why he’s just leapt to his feet. The reaction struck him like lightning, a sudden overpowering need to move, to chase, like a terrier after a rat. Now, with Strange staring at him as though he’s certifiable, he feels a complete fool.

Outside, the woman is gone from his field of view. He stares out after her for a moment, before sitting down. “No, sorry. It’s nothing.”

He sits down again, a long line of pain spread through his thighs, and tries to relax. His thoughts are scrabbling eagerly at the edges of the lock box in his mind that represents his memories of his childhood. For better or worse, he doesn’t need them obscuring his concentration at work. But today the lock keeps slipping, glimmers of memories shining through from beneath the lid. It’s making him twitchy, keeping his nerves on tenterhooks. 

Morse dips his spoon into his soup, and tries not to think about it. 

\----------------------------------------------------

Back at the station, Morse returns to work on the petty crime cases he’s been assigned; even more have accumulated since Jakes has been in court and unable to shoulder his share of them. His focus has hardly improved since the morning, and he nearly baulks in the face of a long list of phone calls to make. In the end he makes them in a curt temper, shading a sheet of paper black while he does by over-straining one of his few pencils, grinding the tip down to a stump. They’re fruitless, pointless calls, and on a day like this he resents more than usual the necessity of having to buckle down to make them when there are real crimes, and real investigations, underway in the city. 

He’s just finished the last of the calls when Thursday taps on the glass behind him; Morse swivels to see the Inspector there, motioning for Morse to join him. He stands hurriedly, straightening his tie – his fingers linger for an instant on the smooth silk – before joining Thursday in his office. 

“Are you caught up on the McCatherty case?” asks Thursday, as Morse steps in and comes to a stop in front of his superior’s desk. Thursday is a tidy man; what papers there are have been neatly stacked and placed parallel to the corner of the blotter. A fountain pen sits near his right elbow – a gift from some men in his army regiment, he once told Morse. 

“Sergeant Jakes gave me his notes before he left, sir, but he said you were handling the investigation,” replies Morse, hooking one arm behind the other and shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to spring at Thursday’s orders. 

“I’ve been following up the church angle – he was nicked at lunch, not long after he’d left the service. Turns out that painting Uniform found at his house was a forgery. The College is sure the one that was taken was the genuine article, meaning he intended to swap it out for the fake and for some reason got held up. If he took it that morning before church, it’s possible he tucked it away somewhere on the chapel grounds. Go fetch the car, and we’ll have a shufti.”

“Yes, sir.” He peels out of the office and down the back stairs that lead to the canteen and, beyond it, the motor pool. 

\------------------------------------------------------

“I’ll speak to the Chaplain,” announces Thursday when they arrive at Magdalen college, Morse parking just past the bridge. They walk back together through the chill afternoon. Down below there are no punters on the river, and the grey water runs forlornly beneath the bridge. 

They pass the front gate, stepping in under the carved images of the college crest, and show their cards to the stout porter in his black uniform. The stone cloisters with their large windows are mostly empty save for a few students hurrying past in black robes and the occasional visitor in mufti. Beyond them in the quad, white hydrangeas are bowing their heavy heads under beads of moisture. 

Thursday leads the way around the quad to the chapel; inside he makes for the back rooms while Morse skulks in the chapel itself, poking about in the pews and behind the statues and reliefs. There’s a smell of old stone and prayer books, the air cool but not so damp here. Morse walks slowly through the seats allocated for the choir, tempted almost to lift his own voice in song to hear the acoustics provided by the vaulted ceiling.

He turns up a lost hat and a few copies of sheet music, but nothing so conspicuous as a stolen painting. A Renaissance Madonna and Christ by Gentile Bellini, it’s long been one of the College’s most prized possessions, and has adorned the rooms of the Chaplain for decades. That is, until its stunning disappearance less than a week ago. 

“Morse!” Thursday’s voice booms through the hall with the explosiveness of a cannon; Morse shoots up, shocked, to see Thursday standing at the far end of the aisle with a surprised look plastered on his face. 

“The chapel is noted for its acoustics,” Morse says as he comes out to meet his boss; Thursday gives him a wry look.

“I can see why.” He glances back towards the door he exited out of, an inconspicuous curved wooden portal set in the shadows in one side of the narthex. “I’ve been speaking to the Chaplain; he mentioned McCatherty was a bell ringer. They were in early that morning practicing for matins. Could be he nicked the painting but couldn’t chance being missed at practice…”

“So it might still be there,” finishes Morse. “I’ll have a look. Was there anything else, sir?”

“I didn’t get the whole story – I’ll finish up here and join you in the tower.”

“Right.” They separate, Morse stepping back out into the cold spring afternoon and crossing the quad again, this time heading for the bell tower. 

Inside the tower there are stairs leading up to the first wooden platform where the bell ringers stand, and from there a ladder skywards to the bells. The first platform is bare, wood clean and unmarked – doubtless it received a good cleaning before the May Day ceremony. Morse takes hold of the ladder and starts climbing; it’s a distance of several storeys to the hatch in the ceiling. 

He tries to keep his thoughts occupied as he climbs, his eyes level with the wall. His mind keeps drifting to the past, to an overgrown Lincolnshire grave and the woman buried there. He can hardly remember her; just snatches of her voice, a memory of softness, an image of long golden-red hair shining in the summer sun. 

Morse reaches the hatch and pushes it open, heaving himself up over the lip and into the room beyond. Here in the distance above he can see the glinting of the bells, huge leaden beasts gleaming coldly in the dark belfry. There are wooden joists and vertical spars here, the space obviously not intended to see much use. In the corner, hidden away in the shadows, is a white-sheeted shape. Morse steps over to it and pulls the sheet off. It’s too dark to make out the details of the object, but the gilt rectangular frame shines gently even in the poor light. Morse sets it down carefully and makes his way to the hatch. 

He pokes his head down, intending to call to Thursday. He realises immediately his mistake as his vision swims at the sight of the three-storey drop; he hurries backwards and falls on shaking legs to sit, stomach turning. The world seems to be spinning, round and round like a fair ride. He lays his palms flat on the floor and tries to make it stop by bracing himself; the spinning weakens but doesn’t stop. Morse waits impatiently, taking deep breathe, until he no longer feels himself to be moving. 

Finally he re-emerges, careful this time not to look down. He makes himself climb onto the ladder, start the laborious process of going down. If he doesn’t look, it will be fine. So long as he keeps his eyes firmly on the wall across from him – 

Down below, the door creaks open. Without conscious thought, Morse’s eyes fly downwards, catching sight of the distance between him and the floor. He tries to grip the ladder but his head is already spinning, spinning, spinning, the world tipping sickeningly. His right foot skids off the step, weight shifting suddenly backwards. 

Morse falls. 

\------------------------------------------------------

Pain.

The world is confined to a narrow, pounding sensation. Agony radiates outward with each heavy beat, then fades into an echo of itself before the next beat brings it back to prominence. 

There’s a low groaning noise – his voice, Morse realises, as awareness trickles in. He’s lying on his back on a hard surface, with a headache that feels as though someone’s driving railroad pins into his skull. 

The pain is juxtaposed by a soft scent; citrus blossom and cinnamon, sweet with a tinge of spice. He cracks one eye open and winces at the raw light that scrapes down on him from an open window. 

“Endeavour? Endeavour?”

He doesn’t recognize the voice. It’s soft, concerned – a woman’s voice. He opens his eyes again and through the blur that is his field of vision sees a silhouette above him, bending over him. Long red-gold hair falls in a curtain about a pale face. He can’t force his eyes to focus on it. “Who…?”

“You’ll be alright. Don’t worry; you’ll be alright.” A gentle hand strokes his hair from his forehead with a gossamer touch. 

He tries to sit up, and the world tumbles away from him with a wrenching severity. Light fades to black.

\-------------------------------------------------

“Morse? Morse? Endeavour?”

He can barely hear the voice through the darkness, just a tiny beacon floating off in the distance. There’s something different about it, but he can’t register what. He remembers… softness, a warm touch. 

“Mother?” He tries to reach out, but his body is too heavy to move. 

He slips away again.

\---------------------------------------------------

Morse wakes to the sound of metal wheels on linoleum. He opens his eyes, and for a moment before they focus is overwhelmed by the whiteness of the world – white walls, white drapes, white sheets. 

Hospital, supplies his brain as it finally gets into gear. A long ward of beds filled with men of varying ages, some with limbs in traction, others with bandages in plain sight. The sound of wheels stops as he turns his head to see a nurse with a white-painted trolley of medicines and gauze at his side. His bed is nearest the door; he can feel a gentle draught blowing in from under the ill-fitting panels. 

The nurse, in a smartly-ironed uniform and cap, smiles when she sees he’s awake. “Good morning,” she says, reaching down to take his pulse. He allows his arm to be lifted and his pyjama sleeve pushed back. 

“Morning?” He realises as he speaks that his mouth is desert-dry, tongue sticking to the roof. He licks his lips with his parched tongue: little improvement. He shifts and finds his head is aching, and that there’s a dull sensation of pain from his right ankle and elbow.

“You were brought in last night; you’ve been sleeping since.”

“What happened?” He remembers… fear, pain, the scent of tropical blossoms. It’s a jumble in his mind, and his head aches too much for him to put it into something resembling sense. 

“You fell and struck your head – concussion, and a few bumps and scrapes. Nothing broken; you’ve been very lucky. The doctor will be around soon and can speak to you about it.” She gives him a little cup of pills; “for the pain,” she explains, when he looks quizzically at her. He swallows them without further protest. 

The doctor comes by a while later and pronounces him in good health but liable to suffer from the concussion for some hours or perhaps days to come. His discharge is planned for later that day, with Morse promising to stay off work until tomorrow at the least. Later, if he still feels ill. 

The promise of release from the hospital later in the day brightens his mood, and he’s sitting up meekly eating the portion of yoghurt and fruit provided him when Thursday blows onto the ward like a winter storm, dark and foreboding. 

He takes a seat in the chair beside Morse’s bed, sitting there a moment before removing his hat as if in concession to Morse’s injuries. They sit in silence for a few minutes, Morse returning his spoon to the bowl of yoghurt, before Thursday speaks in a low, tired tone. “You’re not a bloody cat, Morse.”

“Sir?”

“You don’t have 9 lives. Don’t you think it’s about time you stopped behaving as though you did? Skylarking about like a chimneysweep… what next?” He holds a stern face so long Morse begins to protest, before it slips off to reveal a kind of shaken relief. “Christ, Morse, I can’t always be picking up the pieces,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. 

“I’m sorry, sir. I slipped… at least, I think so. I remember the ladder… I’m not sure whether I was going up or down; it’s all a blur. But it seemed to me… I remember someone being there,” he says, cautiously. 

“Aye, lad, that was me. You were gasping and rolling about for a bit, half-conscious.”

Morse begins to shake his head, realising his mistake immediately as the world sways once in a low-slung parabola. “No, sir. Someone else. A woman. I could smell her perfume.”

“Sorry, Morse. There was only me.” The Inspector sounds strangely sympathetic. Morse frowns. 

“There was someone else,” he insists, although the harder he tries to grasp the memories the hazier they become, slipping through his fingers like mist.

“Well, you were alone when I found you, at any rate. And that couldn’t have been too long after you fell; I wasn’t long in following you,” Thursday says in an easy-going tone. “You’ll be happy to know that we _did_ manage to collect the painting from the belfry – Mr Bright’s to no end pleased.” 

“Good.” Morse nods, and finds himself suddenly overwhelmed by dizziness. “That’s good,” he repeats, weakly. A moment later Thursday’s hand is on his shoulder, nudging him down in the bed. He follows its guidance, curling up beneath the covers and tucking his chin low against the spinning. 

“Alright, don’t push yourself. We’ll have you back on your feet in no time, so long as you cut back on the fool-hardy stunts.”

“Yes, sir,” agrees Morse vaguely, closing his eyes against the tipping room. 

“You’d better get some rest; I’ll stop by this evening to see how you’re getting on.”

“Yes, sir,” repeats Morse, squinting upwards as Thursday rises and replaces his hat. In his blurred field of vision Thursday looks like the towering shadow of a corn mill, looming large over newly-threshed fields. Morse passes a hand over his forehead; he can feel his thoughts streaming together into one chaotic pool, growing more and more fluid and mercurial until he can’t separate them out any longer. The touch of his hand against his forehead sparks a flickering memory: a soft hand against his skin. Thursday?

He opens his eyes more fully; the Inspector is already gone.

\--------------------------------------------------------

At Morse’s request he’s brought the newspaper to read; he finds, however, that focusing on the lines of small print make his head ache and his eyes water. He folds it up and tosses it to the foot of the bed. 

The occasional visits by the nurse, an older woman with a run in her stockings and calloused hands like a navvy’s, does little to alleviate the boredom. Morse finds himself leaning back in bed day-dreaming: first about his cases, then the months spent in Witney, then older memories. Lonsdale, and before it Lincolnshire. And, as night must follow day, his mother. 

It hadn’t been her in the bell tower, of course. He doesn’t believe it – how could he? He remembers the day of her funeral with absolute clarity: the white wisteria growing over the churchyard gate, the slightly flat blare of the church organ playing hymns his father had chosen, the shiny bronze screws in the subdued wood of her coffin, the damp smell of freshly-turned grave earth. All of a piece with a CoE funeral, and nothing she would have wanted for herself. His father all over. 

And yet… there had been someone there with him in the silence of the bell tower. He’s sure of it. And she knew his name.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

When Thursday stops by that afternoon he’s staring pensively at the ceiling, so deep in thought he doesn’t notice the Inspector at first. What he does notice is the scratch of the chair against lino, and looks over to see Thursday seating himself. “Sir,” he says, surprised. Until he glances at the ward clock and sees it’s past five. He sits up, settling his covers around his waist. He can feel his hair feathering through the breeze, doubtless even more of a mess than usual. 

“Long day?” asks Thursday. Morse gives him a tired look. 

“There’s nothing to do here.”

“Or they’d rather that you do nothing,” suggests Thursday. “You’re still recuperating. Don’t push yourself,” he adds, with a glance to the newspaper at the foot of Morse’s bed. 

“Sergeant Jakes back?” asks Morse, quick to change the subject. Thursday gives him a look that suggests he knows exactly what his bagman is about, but doesn’t object. 

“This morning. He noticed you managed to spare yourself the paperwork on the McCatherty case.”

Morse smiles wryly, rubbing gingerly at his head. The ache has faded greatly over the course of the day, leaving behind just a vague pressure at the back of his skull. “That wasn’t my intention.”

Thursday smiles. His gaze runs from Morse’s bed to the bedside table, empty save for a glass of water. “Need anything, lad?”

“No, thank you sir. They say they’ll discharge me tomorrow morning. I’m set.”

“I’ll be back then to pick you up. If you’re up to it, you can come into the office in the afternoon – desk work only, mind.”

Morse makes a face, but nods acquiescence. Thursday doesn’t have to let him back at all, after all. He can’t imagine what Bright had to say about his injury, following so recently on his months of light duties at Witney. Without Thursday he would already be gone from Oxford permanently, banished to the tedium of county drudgery. Gratitude is a prickly, awkward emotion with him, and he drops his eyes when he feels it tickling in the back of his throat. 

“Well then, I’ll see you tomorrow, Morse.” Thursday squeezes his shoulder as he rises, then strides out of the ward. Morse watches him go, then sighs and falls back to lie against the pillows. 

Dinner passes in an uneventful – in fact completely forgettable – manner, and after that there’s just a haze of light painkillers and the noise of the ward settling in for the evening. Then, finally, sleep. 

\--------------------------------------------------------

When he wakes the ward is bathed in cool moonlight, long silver pools lying stilly on the grey floor. Nearby quiet voices are whispering with a sound like a brook running in the distance. Morse’s head no longer aches, and the world barely sways when he raises himself on one elbow to look over to the nurse’s desk.

Standing silhouetted in the moonlight so he can’t see her face is a woman with a long curtain of hair falling over her shoulders. Although it looks almost charcoal-coloured in this light, he can see the glimmering of fiery red when she moves to duck her head closer to the nurse she’s pleading with. Her hands are spread in entreaty, her head bowed. He almost imagines he can detect the scent of cinnamon and lemon blossom – it seems inconceivable she could be wearing another scent. 

He can’t make out much, but visiting hours appears to be the subject of the conversation. He’s already sitting up, sliding his bare feet out of the bed onto the cold floor. He doesn’t bother to look for his slippers; he needs to be there now, to meet this woman. To find out who she is to him. 

As he stands his sheets catch around his leg, forcing him to shift his weight swiftly to shake them off. The room tips alarmingly and he throws out his hand to catch his balance, knocking the glass off his bedside table. 

In the stillness of the ward the sound of the glass shattering is like a grenade blast. By the time Morse steadies himself against the now-barren table the duty nurse is at his side, hustling him back into bed with firm unrelenting hands. He sits and she lifts his bare feet off the now glass-covered floor, checking them carefully for cuts; he tries to curl them in under the cover in shame and is firmly told not to be uncooperative. 

“But,” he begins, looking back over to the nursing station. There’s no one there. 

“Just you lie down and I’ll get this mess cleared away and you can go back to sleep,” says the nurse, a young woman with long hair coiled inconspicuously under her cap. She has a flinty look in her eye, though, and a tone that brooks no nonsense. 

“Who were you talking to just now?” he asks, making a brave face in the face of his impertinence. He’s a detective, paid to ask impolite questions. 

“Never mind about that – here, let’s get these covers on. That’s right. Don’t want to disturb the other patients, do we?” She tucks him down forcefully, ignoring his protests, and then hurries off, presumably to fetch a dustpan and brush. 

It was the same woman he saw in the bell tower, Morse is convinced. No other explanation enters his mind. He needs to see her, this woman who reminds him of… even in the privacy of his head, he can’t make the connection aloud. Can’t admit to himself the memories that are driving him, whipping him on. That make it so necessary he should discover who she is – because she cannot be who he wants her to be. Cannot be a dead woman. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

“Did you sleep?” asks Thursday with a frown when he arrives the next morning. He gives Morse an assessing glance, the corners of his mouth tensing – clearly dissatisfied with what he sees.

“She was here,” says Morse regardless. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, already dressed. Waiting for Thursday, and his ride home. “Last night. The woman from the bell tower.”

Thursday’s frown deepens. “Came to see you, did she?” he asks, in a calm tone. 

“I don’t know – the nurse wouldn’t let her onto the ward. And then…” the words _I was sent back to bed like a naughty child_ , frame themselves in his mind; he ignores them. “She left.”

“Did you speak to the nurse?”

“I was told to go back to bed,” says Morse, irritated by his sulkiness but unable to rise above it. 

“Which is she?” asks Thursday, glancing at the two nurses performing duties currently in the ward.

“She was gone when I woke up this morning; shift change.”

“And you’re sure you mightn’t have dreamed her – your mystery lady,” suggests Thursday gently. “You have been on pain medication, and that was a serious wallop to the head you took.”

Morse gives him a dirty look. Thursday shrugs. “Alright lad. But people in hospital dream, just like everyone else. More, like as not.”

“It wasn’t a dream. She was here. There, by the nursing station.” 

For a moment they both consider the nursing station, a drab desk with an old oak chair, a black Bakelite telephone and a mess of pens and pencils held in a ceramic mug whose general shape and uneven colour proclaim it an amateur effort. Behind it are two tall cabinets holding everything from blankets to bedpans. 

“Perhaps I’d best take you home,” says Thursday, after the moment of contemplation finishes. “Been signed out by the doctor?”

“Yes, sir,” says Morse – it isn’t in fact a lie, but he would have made the same answer regardless. “Free to go.” He stands, aware of Thursday’s watchful eye – he makes a show of staring his superior straight back in the eye without wavering. 

Thursday nods once, apparently in approval. “Alright, lad. Home you go.”

Morse leads the way out.

\-------------------------------------------------------

He half-expects her to be waiting for him in his flat. In fact, what is waiting for him is half a mouldering sandwich sitting on a plate, and a cup which had contained tea dregs a few mornings ago and is now a flourishing bacteriological civilization. He hurriedly dumps the sandwich in the garbage and the mug in the sink while Thursday slowly enters the flat behind him. The fact that he hadn’t insisted on entering first tells Morse how little faith he holds in Morse’s red-haired mystery. “Everything as you left it?”

“Unfortunately,” says Morse, kicking a rolled-up dirty sock out of sight. As life in the inspected police dormitory has faded into a more distant memory, his habits have become distinctly more bachelor-esque. Thursday gives a low hum of assent, eyes on the mess that is the sink. 

“How’re you feeling?” he asks, tearing his eyes away from that horror. 

Morse straightens, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. I can come back with you, sir – just let me have a quick shave and –” 

“You can come in this afternoon for desk work, provided you eat a proper lunch with me first,” stipulates Thursday. “I’ll be back at noon to pick you up. Right?”

“Right,” replies Morse slowly, deflating. 

“I’ll see myself out,” says Thursday in a kindly tone. Morse watches him go, then slowly slumps into one of the two dinner table chairs. Slowly he tilts forward until his head is resting on his folded arms, and lets his eyes droop closed. 

\---------------------------------------------------------

Morse is woken by a knock on the door. His mouth feels as though it’s full of sawdust, and when he raises his head his neck cramps sharply. Groaning he rises to his feet and stumbles over to the door, running a hand over his face and feeling the warmth of sleep there. 

Only half-awake, he opens the door. 

Without noticing it, his hand drops away from the doorknob. He stands, staring, at the woman in front of him. In his chest, something compresses tightly, leaving him feeling confused and breathless. In the air lingers the scent of cinnamon and citrus fruit.

“Endeavour,” says the woman with the long red hair in an uncertain tone. She’s clasping her elbow with her opposite hand, blue eyes wide and watchful. 

Morse has one black and white photograph with his mother, a picture of them together at the beach taken by a family friend who had brought them on the vacation – an unusual luxury for a single mother in a time of rationing and belt-tightening. He stands before her barefoot on the sand, while she leans over to hold his hands, her long hair blowing in her face. Through it, her smile is just barely visible. 

The face of the woman before him could be his mother’s. His memories are so diffuse, washed out like a water-colour painting left in a downpour. What remains is the warmth she instilled in him, the soft love that had come so easily to him then. 

He steps back, staring at her. “Who are you?” His voice is thin, a thread of spider-silk in the suddenly heavy air. 

“My name is Charity Meadows. I’m Constance’s sister – your aunt.” 

“I don’t know you.”

“No. I’ve been abroad for most of your life. Your mother and I were… distant. Both too headstrong in our youth to forgive each other our choices. I stopped writing when I went overseas.”

Morse studies her face closely. Her eyes are the same blue as his own, but wary and narrow. A light scar runs from the outside of her left eye socket to her cheekbone; her nose has a slight hook to it that suggests it’s been broken at least once. 

“I have a picture,” she continues, reaching into her bag without taking her eyes from his face. She produces her wallet, and from its folds, a lined and dog-eared photograph. He takes it and sees two girls standing arm-in-arm on the wold, hair shining in the bright sun. One is his mother. “I’m sorry,” he says, and the words hurt, “I don’t know which…”

“That’s Constance on the left,” she says, in a kindly tone. He looks back to the photograph, traces his thumb over her image. 

“Why are you here now?” he asks, slowly pulling back into his flat and opening the door for her. He hands the photograph back and she takes it, tucking it away. 

Inside the flat he rounds the dinner table to the far chair and pulls it out for himself, resting his hands on the back and standing behind it. He motions her into the other chair and she seats herself slowly. 

“My husband died.” She says it in a flat, dead voice. 

“I’m sorry,” begins Morse, but she shakes her head.

“Don’t be. Please. He’s the reason I left England, went away to… to hide, honestly. I’ve been in Canada these past twenty-five years. But my solicitor wrote to tell me of his death, so I came back. To make sure it was true. I went to see Constance but…” Her lips tighten and she glances away, fingers curled over her arms so tightly they gouge into the thick wool of her coat. “I never knew. All these years, and… I have him to thank for that, too,” she says, in a low vitriolic tone. She forcibly untenses and sits up, pushing a hand through her hair. 

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m not being very clear.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” Morse assures her. “Would you like some tea?”

“I can make it – oughtn’t you to be in bed, by the way?”

Morse smiles. “I was cleared for release by the doctor – light duties are no problem. I include tea-making in that manifest.”

She smiles back. “I’d be happy to do it.” She stands and walks into the kitchen; from there she still has a clear line of sight to him and he remains sitting while she fills the kettle up and puts it on the cooker. 

“Constance never approved of David, and I never approved of Cyril. The only difference was that it only took her a piece of paper to leave him and it took me severing all my ties to escape David. He was a cruel beast of a man, and the only thing I learned from him was distrust. I would have written to her, after leaving him, but I was afraid he would come after her – and you – to get to me. I couldn’t do that. So I disappeared, and I didn’t learn my own sister was dead until fifteen years had passed.” She turns to look out the window, standing silently for some time. 

“I went to your old house. I hadn’t known any of it; Constance was still together with your father when I left. I met your stepmother – she told me… everything, really. Strange to learn it from her.” She reaches out and traces a line in the condensation on the window, a long straight slant from one corner to the other, splitting the pane in two. 

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. But I regret their deaths – and all the things I never had the chance to say.”

“Me too,” says Morse, quietly. On the cooker the kettle begins to boil. Charity turns from the window, wiping at her eyes, and takes it off the gas. Morse stands and comes in to fetch the tea caddy and the mugs. “Was it Gwen who sent you here?”

“Yes. She gave me your address. But I saw you first – at my old college. I was staying with a don there, and old friend. I saw you crossing the quad and… it sounds odd, I didn’t know it was you but somehow I hoped it was. You look like your mother, you know. I followed you into the bell tower and found you there on the floor. I went out to fetch help and I saw your friend coming and I’m afraid I… left. If David isn’t dead, the last thing I could chance was an encounter with the police.”

Morse lowers his cup of tea slowly. “You do know that I’m a police officer,” he says, gently.

With her hands wrapped around the warm mug and the morning sun shining in her hair, she looks peaceful, at ease. “Yes,” she nods, “but you’re also Constance’s son. If I must learn to trust again, I can’t think of a better place.”

Morse smiles. “Thank you. I can help you with whatever you need. Finding information on your husband, finding a safe place to stay.” 

“I think what I would really like, just for the moment, is to get to know my nephew.”

Morse looks around sheepishly. “Even though he lives in squalor?”

For the first time, she smiles. “Even then.”

\---------------------------------------------------------

When Thursday arrives some time later, having let himself in the front door with his copy of the key, the two of them are sitting at Morse’s dinner table drinking tea. 

“Hello, sir,” says Morse as he opens the door. Behind him Charity rises. “This is my Aunt, Charity Meadows.”

“Pleased to meet you ma’am,” replies Thursday, tipping his hat and giving absolutely no sign of confusion. 

“If it’s not too much trouble, sir, I’d like to take the afternoon off. I have something to do for my Aunt.”

Thursday gives him a long look. “There’s no trouble about the time, lad, but you oughtn’t to be stressing yourself.”

“It’s nothing, sir, just a few phone calls.”

“Then I suppose I can agree to that,” says Thursday. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” He shows Thursday out, then turns to Charity. 

“I’ll make the calls about your husband now – some of them may take some time getting back to me. In the meantime, perhaps you’d like to come out with me and see Oxford? I can’t imagine being gone for twenty-five years.” Sometime in between his time here as a student and his return, he’s realised that Oxford feels like home. A place he can’t imagine being banished from, never to return. 

Charity smiles, pushing her long hair behind her ears and giving Morse a glad look. “Thank you. I think I would.”

END


End file.
